Dockstetter’s pale eyes narrowed. “Is this another guess you’re asking for?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d say that, definitely, Booker was up to no good, as the saying goes. Rosa — Mrs. Cappellani — is very—” He paused, searching for the word. “She’s very susceptible,” he said finally. “She’s very vain. And according to the rumors, she’s very—” Again he hesitated. Finally: “She’s very hot-blooded.” Saying it, he registered disdainful disapproval.
“Sexually, you mean.”
He nodded primly. “That’s her business, of course. However, when her, ah, appetites affect the welfare of the winery, then others become involved. And that’s what’s happening.”
“Is the winery in trouble?”
“Not serious trouble. Not yet. But it could happen. Both Rosa and Leo have had other things on their minds, lately. And it’s beginning to show. Cappellani wines used to have a reputation for quality. That’s no longer true.”
I thought about what he’d told me, then decided to say, “Rosa came to see me this morning, along with with Paul Rosten. She said that Leo has taken over the management of the winery — and is doing a good job.”
He sniffed. “Leo was doing a good job, up until a year or so ago. Then he began to get involved in politics, just like his father. It’s the same pattern, all over again. As soon as the old man got a little power — a little money — he immediately began to think of himself as a kingmaker. The same thing is happening with Leo. If it weren’t so — so ludicrous, it would be funny. Basically, they’re nothing but grape growers who got lucky. In the fifties, the old man was constantly flying off to Texas, or New York, or God knows where, instead of tending to business. The real kingmakers must have laughed at him — and used him, too.”
Obviously, the thought gave Dockstetter a certain malicious pleasure. He was a man who enjoyed minimizing the achievements of others. I saw him raise a finger to a passing waiter, point to his empty glass. He didn’t ask whether Canelli or I would join him.
“Paul Rosten is another—” Dockstetter hesitated, searching for the word. “He’s another strange one,” he finished lamely.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean—” Again, he hesitated, this time while the red-jacketed waiter took away his glass. “I mean that as a winemaker, he’s impossible. He simply has no feeling for the job. But Rosa would never think of firing him.”
“Why not?”
Dockstetter looked at me shrewdly. I thought I knew why. He was about to pass on more gossip — gratuitously, for his own self-serving purpose.
“Rosten was very close to the old man — birds of a feather. That’s one theory. There’s also a theory that Rosten and Rosa were lovers after the old man died. Or maybe—” He permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smirk. “Or maybe before, others, say.”
At my belt, a small electronic pager buzzed. I pressed the button and heard Halliday requesting that I phone Communications, code two.
“I used to have one of those,” Dockstetter said, pointing to the pager. “But I eventually decided it was a terrible nuisance. Simply terrible.”
I rose to my feet. “That’s negative thinking, Dockstetter,” I said. “You should’ve thought of it as a status symbol.”
He didn’t return my departing smile.
I’d seen a phone outside the Yacht Club, at dockside. As we walked toward the phone, Canelli said, “That Dockstetter’s sure a pris.”
“A what?”
“A pris. You know — for prissy.”
“Have you got a dime?” I asked.
“How’s two nickels?”
“Fine. Thanks.” I dialed Communications and asked for Halliday.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lieutenant,” he said. “But Lieutenant Friedman is out, and Canelli is with you, I gather. And I’ve got a couple of things that I thought you should know about, on the Booker homicide.”
“It’s all right, Halliday. What’ve you got?”
“First,” he said, “a black and white car spotted Alex Cappellani’s car. It’s on upper Grant Avenue, near Greenwich. They’re keeping it under survelliance. I thought I’d better notify you.”
“I’m glad you did. Are you in contact with the team watching the Cappellani offices?”
“Yessir, I am.”
“All right. On my authority, tell them to proceed to Alex’s car and relieve the uniformed officers. Tell them to stay well back, out of sight. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear.”
“What else’ve you got?”
“The team that’s looking for Mal Howard drew a couple of blanks, but now they’re sure they’ve located his present address. They found someone who got burned by Howard on a dirty movie transaction, and he’s willing to cop, out of spite. It looks pretty solid. I thought I should tell you.”
I took out my ballpoint pen. “What’s the address?”
“1976 Scott Street. Near Pine.”
“I’ll send Canelli to take charge. Have a sector car pick him up at the Yacht Club, outside. I’m going to the Cappellani offices. I shouldn’t be there for more than an hour. Then, if nothing else develops, I’ll go downtown.”
“Right.”
“You’re doing a good job, Halliday. Are you going to be on duty for a while today?”
“I’ll stay as long as you want me, Lieutenant, if that’s the question.”
“That’s the question, Halliday. Thanks.”
10
The receptionist’s face was expressionless as she examined my badge. She was a pale, fussy woman of about thirty, with a narrow head and a scrawny body. A bright red mouth accented the unhealthy pallor of her face. A tight sweater clung to a torso that was barely pubescent. Dark eyeshadow enlarged eyes that were already protuberant.
“Is Mr. Cappellani expecting you?”
“He’s expecting me at two. I’m early, but I hope he’ll see me. I’m having a — busy day.”
Plainly displeased, she lifted her phone and spoke in a hushed voice. She handled the phone as if it were covered with germs.
“He’ll see you, Lieutenant.” Disapprovingly, she gestured to a tall walnut door with brushed chrome fittings. A matching chrome nameplate was inscribed L. CAPPELLANI. The effect was understated elegance.
“Go right in, please.”
The Cappellani offices occupied a suite on the third floor of one of the huge brick warehouses that had been built close to the waterfront at the turn of the century. As shipping declined, the fortresslike warehouses had fallen vacant. Then, during the last decade, developers had profitably restored the old buildings, remodeling them to accent worn wooden beams and the timeless texture of natural brick. Leo Cappellani had a corner office. On two sides, big plate-glass windows set into the massive exposed-brick walls offered a magnificent view of San Francisco Bay.
Leo Cappellani sat behind an oversized rosewood desk. As I entered the office he rose to his feet and gestured me to an armchair placed about five feet from the desk. As I sat down, I realized that my chair was several inches lower than Leo’s. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“I hope this won’t take long, Lieutenant. I don’t mind telling you that I’m having a hell of a day.” He ran his fingers impatiently through dark, curly hair as he threw himself back into his elegant black leather swivel chair. “First, there’s Alex — and then Booker. And then, in addition to everything else, we just had a goddamn shipment of wine hijacked, if you can believe that. And, as if that weren’t enough, my secretary phoned in sick.”
“You had a wine shipment hijacked?” I asked incredulously.